


Bon Appétit

by demonfox38



Series: DLC from DF38 [3]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: The Spy decides to have himself a polite little dinner with his rival Sniper. Well, as polite as it can get with that crude bushman and a spool-full of rope.
Series: DLC from DF38 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677937
Kudos: 9





	Bon Appétit

**Author's Note:**

> This story was posted on September 3rd, 2013 at Tumblr. The prompt read:
> 
> (BLU) Sniper/Spy (RED) - a fic based on [this picture](https://h0lyhandgrenade.tumblr.com/post/35715706614/romantically-wonderful-sniperspy-please-3) (suggestion: after one too many Jarates, RED Spy decides to get his revenge on the enemy Sniper by trolling him with a “romantic” date and getting a lot of laughs at his expense. No rape, please)

There was a silk handkerchief crammed in his mouth.

Of all the things the Sniper should have been concerned about, the gag around his mouth seemed the least consequential. The itchy twine wrapped around his limbs was digging into clothing and skin alike. The darkness of the room, coupled with his chill, should have been enough to make the hairs on his skin stand erect. There was something on his lap—not too light, but not by any means heavy. Some sort of cloth, no doubt. He squirmed in the dark, trying not to crash forward and onto his face. Sure enough, he fell onto his right side. His sunglasses went ajar, his hat off his head.

He wasn’t able to flip himself upright before his captor came into his prison.

The Sniper couldn’t see over his shoulder. The shadow across his back confirmed his suspicions. Lean, sharp, well kept. The only man that would waste a silk handkerchief on a prisoner was one that had dozens to spare. The Sniper sighed, his breath turning into a low growl. He thought he was done with this game. The constant chase, the knife fights in dark rooms, the defenestrations.

He tried uttering a threat, but it came out as meaningless, garbled grunts.

There was a sad clicking from behind his back. "Sniper, mon ami. Even as you struggle, you leave your most vulnerable side exposed to me. Haven’t you learned anything zhese past few years?"

The Sniper barked something. He did little more than collect spit in the handkerchief.

Slow footsteps ticked behind the captive’s back. He tensed up, prepared to turn around and land on the enemy Spy’s toes. His captor gave little attention to the dog at his ankles. There was clinking from above the Sniper’s head. He stopped his thrashing and shouting long enough to listen. Two gentle thunks came down in sync. What could that be? His stomach sank in pain. Surely, the Spy wouldn’t be so crass as to use something blunt on him. Piercing implements were the tools of his trade. If he were to torture the Sniper, it would be with daggers, not hammers.

His world jumped up ninety degrees. The Sniper steeled his stomach as his captor sat him down on all four chair legs once again. Fabric skirted his thighs. Another smooth cloth was jammed down his shirt’s collar. He shivered as leather gloves stroked across his clavicle. Something warm and savory wafted in front of him. Another grumble escaped his stomach. Food. Probably poisoned, but still. His nose didn’t particularly care about that.

"Don’t move again," the Spy rebuked him.

There was a scrape against his leather vest. A wisp of fire billowed next to his shoulder. His captor reached forward, then bobbed the fireball downward. A slow, waving flame grew to life from a scarlet candle. Its front was stamped with his enemy’s company logo. RED, pseudo cursive, encircled by a round bomb. It was the only source of light in that little room, now that the door behind the Spy had gone shut. From its plump core, it bathed the table in low, red light.

The Sniper crinkled his nose. He managed to mumble, "Crnrmrn?"

"Ah! Très bon!" His captor clapped his hands. "Strong, no? I would have gone with something a little less spicy, but canelle will do." He stopped once, then snorted a laugh. "Chandelle canelle. Funny, is it not?"

The Sniper tried to slink down in his seat. The ropes kept his posture perfectly straight. He hung his head, then sighed again. Leave it to his captor to come up with some bizarre new way to torment him.

The RED Spy clicked his tongue. "Don’t be like zhat, Monsieur. I only want you to have a pleasant evening."

A slick pop echoed in the dark room. Heavy vapors reached the BLU Sniper’s nose. Alcohol. Thick, red liquid swirled into a glass set to his left. The Sniper couldn’t believe this nonsense. How was he supposed to drink and eat like this? The RED Spy poured himself a hefty drink, chuckling at the Sniper’s flummoxed face. Both glasses were filled to the brim, nearly overflowing. The only force keeping the wine from dribbling down the side was surface tension. The Spy took a drink, then frowned.

"How rude of me." He reached forward, then clinked the Sniper’s glass. "A toast."

"Tr wrt?" the Sniper asked. He cursed further, but his words became completely unintelligible slurs behind his gag. The Spy let him run his angry course before speaking. He knew it was safe to talk once the Sniper slumped again in quiet defeat.

The Spy smiled. He leaned forward, taking another sip. "Mon ami, we are coworkers now, are we not? Both our employers are no more. We have no more reason to fight each ozher. I think it’s time we get to know one anozher in a way outside of our usual arrangements."

One long foot reached out and brushed the Sniper’s leg. The Australian jolted. The cold leather running up and down his leg, over tingling hairs and his socks—it was too much. Too forward. He tried hopping backwards. All he managed to do was slam his knees into the table. His enemy laughed as the Sniper curled up, cursing in pain.

"Don’t be so modest, Sniper," the RED Spy cackled. "It’s nozhing. Just a little tease."

The BLU Sniper spat another garbled curse at the RED Spy. It didn’t take a translator to know that the Sniper had told the Spy to have a certain kind of negative sexual relationship with his own person.

The RED Spy pulled back. "Mon ami, speak carefully with your words. You do want to leave here, do you not? I could keep you down here a long time. Eizher you eat peacefully with me now, or you will be gavaged. Do you understand?"

The prisoner grunted again, but he went still.

"Good. Now, listen to me," the Spy said. "Zhe longer you behave, zhe more restraints I will remove. Zhat should give you incentive enough, no? Besides, it would be a waste if your meal went cold. I did work hard on preparing it."

The Sniper sighed, but he nodded in agreement. Placating the enemy was the quickest way out of this.

The RED Spy leaned towards his captive. He swirled his wine glass, then took another sip. "It is like I said before. I would like to offer you a proposal. Razher, your team. You see, after our mutual employers were assassinated, I had no reason to torment any of you. However, our lovely Administrator has continued sending us out on the front lines, zhanks to our new menace."

"Thr rbrts," the Sniper grumbled behind the handkerchief.

"Zhat’s right," the Spy nodded. "To be honest, we have had many problems. For some asinine reason, we are only allowed six men on the battlefield. My team has done a terrible job of managing this situation. Zhe same six men are sent out, day after day, and zhey are slaughtered. Meanwhile, three of us are getting—"

"Frt?" the BLU Sniper snickered.

The RED Spy looked genuinely hurt. "You can tell? Mon dieu, I haven’t gained zhat much weight."

The Sniper shrugged as best as he could manage. "Nt sr brd."

"How can it be zhat you wound me with one sentence and heal me with the next?" the Spy asked. "Hmm. Perhaps I underestimated you. At any rate—yes. My doctor, my Sniper, and I are all not getting zhe practice we need."

The BLU Sniper grumbled. He tried speaking again, but he shook his head. His sentences were useless if he couldn’t get that damned gag out of his mouth. The Spy sighed, then took pity on his captive. He reached across the table. With one tug, the gag fell out of the Sniper’s mouth. The captor drew back before his prisoner could get an opportunity to bite him with his long, sharp teeth.

"Crikey, finally! I was about to go mad!" the Sniper huffed. He recomposed himself, then continued his original statement. "So, that’s what that business was with you the other day, rootin’ through my van in the middle of the night? You just wanted practice, so you beat me up while I was tryin’ ta take a snooze?"

The RED Spy sighed. "Well, I zhought you would be a better target if I did not give you any warning. You certainly fight harder zhat way, at any rate."

"Swell," the Sniper replied.

"You know, it’s hard for me. Truly," the Spy lamented. "Zhere was a time when I could come upon you with little cat’s feet and push you out a window. Now? I must sound like a herd of elephants stomping about."

The Sniper drew his shoulders up again. "Your words, not mine."

There was a dark smile on the RED Spy’s face. The candlelight took a wicked turn, sending warm light flittering across his skin. "Ah, I am sorry. Here I am, complaining about zhis and zhat, and I have barely helped you to your dinner. You look so parched, too. When was zhe last time you had something to drink?"

A cold reflex went up the Sniper’s spine. Manipulation. That bastard was trying to get to him. Damned if it wasn’t working, too. His throat was arid. It felt like two dunes scraping against each other. He gave a brief look at the wine glass next to his cooling, untouched meal. He thought his stomach was going to crumple into a black hole. All at once, he became very aware of his needs. Vulnerable. Uncomfortable.

"Let me help you," the RED Spy said.

Leather gloves drew the BLU Sniper’s chin forward. They were soft and smooth against his weary, stubbled face. He tipped the Sniper’s chin upright, then pressed cool glass against the Sniper’s dry lips. Bitter liquid ran down his throat. He coughed, the alcohol burning all the way down. Red wine ran down the corners of his mouth. The RED Spy mopped droplets up with the tips of his black fingers. He placed the glass back down, then licked his thumbs.

"Better?" the Spy asked.

The BLU Sniper’s face was as red as the candle. "Would be, if I could use my hands."

"Your bindings—it is a symptom of our lack of trust, isn’t it, Monsieur?" the Spy murmured. He drew his knife upwards, then began cutting a hunk of meat on his plate. "See, zhis knife. You would not trust me with it, would you? Given your condition, I wouldn’t trust you with it, either. Since I am in control, that is why I have it and you do not."

"You can’t trust me? Even with my hands tied?" the Sniper pondered.

The RED Spy smirked. "Especially not. But, if you prove yourself trustworthy, I can help you." He reached across the table, leaning over the candle. He made slow, gentle cuts in the Sniper’s dinner as he spoke. "If you see me as a maniac, zhen this knife serves you no worth. It is a weapon that will harm you. But, look at what it can provide you."

He pierced a hunk of flesh off the Sniper’s plate. Carefully, he placed the blade across the Sniper’s lips, the flat side against skin. The BLU Sniper hesitated, weary of the Spy’s games. It was clear that he was not going to move until the Sniper complied. He opened his mouth, then gingerly took the meat from the knife. The RED Spy pulled back as the Sniper chewed the offering. It was amusing to watch him gnash and swallow.

"Good, no?" the RED Spy smiled.

The Sniper bobbed his head. "Glad it wasn’t snail. Little bit rare for my tastes."

The Spy lowered his eyebrows in a frustrated glare. "Zhat was demi-anglais."

"You eat what I eat, ‘n you cook everythin’ well done," the Sniper replied.

With a low sigh, the Spy continued his previous sentiments. "Zhink, mon ami. Look at what my team—what I—can offer you and your men. Sustenance. Support. Together, we can be so good."

"It’s not like we’ve had a holiday, yeah?" the BLU Sniper replied. "While you and your lot’ve been busy fendin’ off robots, we’ve been scopin’ out bases ‘n blowin’ them to Kingdom Come. Bit more of your job, I think. ‘Reliable Excavation Demolition’, after all."

"Zhe logic of our team names went out zhe door zhe first time your Engineer and Demoman built a payload bomb," the Spy grunted.

The Sniper’s stomach rumbled again. The smell of meat and the mere morsel he had was too tempting. The Spy had caught onto his weakness. He raised an eyebrow, taunting the Sniper once more. The marksman tried covering for his body’s embarrassing failings. "You talk all about what we’d get. What do you want from us? Practice? Backup?"

The Spy smiled again. "Precisely, Bushman! On mutual terms, of course. Your team mixes with mine, and mine with yours. We rotate and keep each other balanced. Meanwhile, zhe rest of us can keep in shape with scheduled practices."

"Wait a tic," the Sniper stalled. "You want to go back to fightin’ us? Why the bloody hell do you need permission for that? Seems like ya didn’t particularly care last time ya jumped me. This time too, for that matter."

"For zhat, I apologize. Truly. But, you must see value in what I am saying," the Spy replied. "Co-operation. Teamwork. Mutual, friendly challenge. A chance to make up for five years of war. Don’t you zhink it would be good for us?"

The Sniper let his head hang. His Soldier would appreciate it, certainly. He had sacrificed his friendship with the enemy Demoman over a stupid pair of shoes. They would certainly appreciate a second chance. Perhaps there were others like the two. How was he to know? After that incident, it had been better for everyone to hate each other.

"It’s really not my call, ya know," the Sniper spoke. "This is somethin’ we should all talk about. Maybe with an intermediary in the room."

The Spy grumbled. "I don’t care about zheir opinion. Not now. At zhis moment, I want just one—yours."

Anger flared in the Sniper’s brain again. For being such a high assassin with standards, he frequently let his temper get the better of him. He exhaled hot air from his nose. No, no more cursing. If he was going to get back to his team, he had to appease his captor. There was going to be no peace without control over himself. Certainly, no freedom.

His alien, quiet demeanor surprised the RED Spy. "You are speechless, mon ami. How perplexing. I can’t tell whezher or not I should be concerned."

"I know you don’t trust me," the Sniper said. He shrugged, struggling weakly against his bonds. "This proves it. ‘N you know I don’t trust you. Five, six years of you always in my shadow, on my back. Doin’ whatever it is that this is. It’s the kind of thing a little booze ‘n tucker doesn’t fix."

"What are you trying to say, Bushman?" the Spy asked. His tone went dark, ominous.

The Sniper lulled his head back. He blew another angry roll of heat from his nose before speaking again. "I want to do what’s roight for my mates. ‘N I want to get out of this chair. But, I don’t want to do it by lyin’ to you. I can’t say I’m on board. Not ‘till I’m sure that you’re not just tryin’ to get another go at my back."

The RED Spy curled in his seat. There was a hitch in time as he processed the terms of the Sniper’s rejection. There was frustration, yes. Rage, even. He was not a man that craved dismissal, certainly not from some backwoods piss-thrower. His ego was stronger than the Sniper’s words. He chuckled, trying to find a way to play it off. "Can you blame a man for trying? Not every day I run across a backside like yours."

An uncomfortable silence surrounded the dark table. The Sniper lowered his eyes, staring just beyond his food to the red, flickering candle. The Spy did the same but snorted when he realized his mimicry. Old demons taunted his brain. Habits established over so long didn’t fade away. The Sniper was right. Even now, he felt as if he could do terrible, unspeakable things to the foul bushman’s body. To teach him a lesson. To make him pay.

It had to go. This awful lifestyle, his insecurities about his future, his captive—all of them.

The Spy pushed his chair back. He pulled his steak knife off the table, then gave it a good shake. Juices and fat flicked off it. He held it down, sharp side facing him, like a mantis waiting for the chance to strike. The Sniper frowned, but he didn’t plead. He let himself go as slack as he could. This would hurt more if he tensed up. His RED rival stepped behind him, cold footsteps stopping without a single echo. The Sniper sighed. The killing blow was any moment now.

The blade scraped, but not against the Sniper’s bones. There was a soft, sawing sort of sound from behind his back. The Sniper didn’t dare to move much, but he gave a glance over his shoulder. The RED was picking at the knot that held his wrists together. The ropes fell away with a dull thud. He moved upwards, taking out each and every last binding. When he leaned down to free the BLU’s legs, he pressed a hand against the captive’s thigh. Not an act of harassment, nor humiliation. Just to balance himself as he worked.

Now, the Sniper truly was speechless. "Spy, I…"

The RED Spy took his seat once more. He cleaned the knife with a cloth napkin. "Zhe door is behind you. You may go."

The BLU Sniper jerked his head to the left. Freedom. Could it be so simple? He gave the Spy another glance. Surely, he had to have other teammates out there, waiting to snatch him up and beat him into paste. He rubbed his wrists, red and raw with his struggles. That wasn’t an injury the Spy had given him. That was the mark of his own stubbornness.

He felt like an ass, and he was pissed with himself.

The Spy stared in amazement as the Sniper snatched the silk handkerchief that had been around his mouth and tossed it aside. He reached for the wine bottle, then refilled both of their glasses. When that was done, he sat down and placed his hands in his lap.

"It’d be rude if I refused a meal," the Sniper said.

The Spy nodded. He lifted his glass once more. "Well said. Cheers, Bushman."


End file.
